My Brother's Keeper
by Sherlock'sScarf
Summary: Mycroft discovers an upsetting truth about Sherlock's past. Sebastian Wilkes gets his comeuppance...but at what cost? Part 4 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. Sherlock/John slash.
1. Chapter 1

Author note: Part 4 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story is a sequel to my two earlier fics, "Always The Last To Know" and "Completely Amazing," and a companion piece to my earlier fic, "Song of Sherlock," and contains some dialogue from that fic. This is a different take on that story, told from Mycroft's POV. This is definitely not a standalone piece – it would probably make more sense to read the rest of the series first, as they tell how John and Sherlock got to this point.

Many thanks to my wunnerfulwunnerful beta, Skyfullofstars. The scene with the Scotch is largely her doing. If you haven't read her fics yet, drop everything and go read her stuff at once. You'll be glad you did. (But please, come back here when you're done!)

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch or Mr. Freeman (or both! together!) ever feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'm sure we could come to an arrangement. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.

Trigger warnings: References to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

Please read and review!

**My Brother's Keeper**

**By Sherlock's Scarf**

_In which Sebastian Wilkes finally gets his comeuppance…but at what cost?_

oOoOo

"_**Then the Lord said to Cain, 'Where is your brother Abel?'**_

'_**I don't know,' he replied. 'Am I my brother's keeper?'**_

_**The Lord said, 'What have you done? Listen!  
Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground.'"**_

_**Genesis 4:9-10**_

oOoOo

"What do you mean, he's gone?"

Mycroft Holmes was a busy man, far too busy to be dealing with any nonsense from his little brother. Sherlock had always been a challenge, constantly finding new ways to antagonize his older brother. Mycroft had hoped that when Sherlock began attending university at the age of 15, that his intellect would be challenged enough to keep him out of trouble.

Clearly, Mycroft was too much of an optimist.

There had been so many conversations with the Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, conversations where Mycroft had to use all of his considerable diplomatic skills to persuade him to allow Sherlock to remain as a student, that Mycroft received a personal Christmas card from him each year. Of course, the Holmes family's considerable donations to the university might have been a contributing factor. Then again, those endowments would not have been necessary if not for Sherlock's…antics.

This morning, Mycroft was managing Britain's interests in two globally significant events, the dissolution of Czechoslovakia and the Chemical Weapons Convention. It was the first time that his superiors had given him two projects of such significance to oversee at once, and Mycroft was determined to prove himself worthy. The last thing he needed was to be cleaning up after his little brother. Yet here was Ian, Mycroft's personal assistant, with an urgent phone call from Sherlock's sorely-tried student advisor, Mary Wentworth.

Mycroft sighed, nodded to Ian, and lifted the receiver.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Wentworth. How are you today?"

The frown lines between his eyebrows deepened as he listened, and his knuckles tightened on the telephone handset. _Bloody hell_ – this was not what he needed right now.

"What do you mean, he's gone?"

oOoOo

Mycroft waited, his long, graceful fingers tapping lightly on the arm of the beautifully upholstered club chair. Once again, he was grateful for the Holmes family's inherited membership in the Diogenes Club. The plush, comfortable atmosphere of the club always felt far more like home to Mycroft than his own tastefully decorated flat. Such peace, such tranquility.

Not for long.

When the door burst open, Mycroft sighed, looking resignedly past the livid figure before him to the two gloved and flannel-booted gentlemen who had escorted his guest to the Stranger's Room. At the small nod from Mycroft, they politely stepped out, closing the door softly behind them.

Thank heaven the Stranger's Room was soundproofed.

"How _dare_ you send your minions to kidnap me, Mycroft?" roared the wraithlike young man, his startling upturned eyes blazing.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," Mycroft said coolly. "I trust that you are quite well?"

In actual fact, Sherlock looked anything _but_ well. Mycroft's highly-focused gaze swept his younger brother, taking in the way his disheveled clothing hung on his gaunt frame. Sherlock was almost vibrating with tension, and Mycroft noticed dark shadows below his eyes, eyes so overly dilated that Mycroft could scarcely see their pale, silver-blue colour. A muscle tic caused his right eye to twitch slightly.

"What the hell do you care, Mycroft?" A scornful sneer curled Sherlock's full lips.

"Of course I care, brother mine – you know how I worry about you."

Sherlock threw himself down sideways into the leather chair facing Mycroft.

"Only when it's to your advantage, Mycroft. _What do you want?_ Don't make me ask you again. You know how I _loathe_ repeating myself."

"You wound me, Sherlock. I repeat: I was _concerned_ about you. It has taken three weeks to run you to ground. I received a call from Mrs. Wentworth at Cambridge…"

"Stupid cow." Sherlock rolled his eyes, then shot a suspicious glare at Mycroft through the greasy, unkempt curls that fell heavily across his forehead. "What did she tell you?"

"That you disappeared without warning from your dormitory, without completing the term, and without notice of any kind to the college administration."

Mycroft leaned forward, looking sharply at his younger brother, who threw his head back over the chair arm with a huff.

"My own investigation at Cambridge turned up no concrete information about why you would have abandoned your course of study in such a heedless fashion. I did, however, hear some…rumors…that you were…_involved_ with a fellow student?" Mycroft noted Sherlock's sudden agitation, his twitching fingers and feet.

"Unfortunately, I was unable to discover a name…?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

Sherlock practically leaped from his chair and began to pace the room like a caged tiger.

"You were misinformed. I don't _do_ romantic relationships, Mycroft. The brain is all that matters."

Mycroft quirked one eyebrow sardonically, and replied, "And you are taking care of that brain with stimulants now?"

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled. "I am an adult, this is my body, and I can do what I like with it. Don't meddle in my life any more. Leave. Me. _Alone_."

Sherlock whirled toward the door. Before he could leave, Mycroft spoke again.

"Who was he, Sherlock? What did he do to you?"

Sherlock froze, his hand on the doorknob. Mycroft watched Sherlock's back heave with his panicked breathing. He said nothing, and for a moment, Mycroft hoped he might answer.

Then he was gone, with a loud slam of the door to the Stranger's Room that would almost certainly cost Mycroft a warning in his membership file.

Mycroft huffed out a long, frustrated sigh. Sherlock was clearly abusing some stimulant, almost certainly cocaine, and this was likely only the beginning of a long, frightening downward spiral.

oOoOo

"Sherlock? You haven't participated in this discussion at all." The therapist leaned forward in her chair, looking intently at the sullen figure crouched in an armchair, long toes curling over the edge of the cushion. "We are here to help you. Don't you have anything you'd like to say to your brother?"

Mycroft watched his younger brother's tangled curls, as his face was buried in his bony knees. Long, woefully thin arms were wrapped firmly around his shins, the short sleeves of his hospital-issue pyjama top doing nothing to hide the bruising and track marks on Sherlock's arms.

"Sherlock?"

Sulky, glaucous eyes lifted to stare at the therapist, pointedly _not_ looking in his direction, Mycroft noted wryly.

"I have nothing to say to the bastard who is responsible for my incarceration in this hellhole."

"No need to thank me, Sherlock," Mycroft drawled. "I'm only looking out for your wellbeing."

If looks could kill, the glare that Sherlock sent in Mycroft's direction could have wiped out London's West End.

oOoOo

"Sir, your brother has found a new flatmate."

Mycroft looked sharply at Anthea, the elegant young woman that had succeeded Ian when he accepted a post with the Common Foreign and Security Policy team.

Anthea might affect a distracted demeanor, but she was as sharp as a razor. Mycroft trusted her to handle surveillance monitoring details for the people who were important to him, and she never failed him. The fact that she was bringing this up meant there was more to the story, and considering Sherlock's history, Mycroft couldn't be too careful. Mycroft took the file, glancing over the profile of the former soldier.

"Make arrangements for a discreet meeting with Doctor Watson this evening, please."

"Very good, sir."

oOoOo


	2. Chapter 2

Author note: See disclaimers and notes from Chapter 1.

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.

Trigger warnings: References to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

Please read and review!

**Chapter 2**

oOoOo

Mycroft was impressed with John Watson. Very few people showed the control and strength that the former army doctor displayed. His seemingly endless patience with Sherlock's quirks was extraordinary. He walked the perfect line between tolerating Sherlock's eccentric behavior and holding Sherlock accountable for his actions.

Although it might not be readily apparent to the average observer, Sherlock's deep regard for John was as obvious as daylight to Mycroft, who knew his little brother very well. In the time John had lived with his brother, Mycroft had watched Sherlock go from appearing completely oblivious to the feelings of others to actually considering the wellbeing of someone other than himself.

The thrill of facing danger with a steadfast partner by his side seemed to have mercifully replaced the thrill of cocaine. Sherlock had been clean for several years before he met John, but the constant threat of a relapse hung over him like a cloud until the little army doctor arrived. Now Mycroft seldom saw signs of Sherlock battling his old addiction, and when he did have "danger nights," John was the best ally that one could wish for.

The attachment between Sherlock and John was much stronger than either of them seemed to realise. Mycroft watched with interest as John went through a string of doomed relationships, which all seemed to end due to a certain consulting detective "unconscious" manipulations. He watched Sherlock's studied nonchalance each time John met a new woman, and the way that his demands on John's time escalated until the preordained breakup.

Mycroft observed it all with amusement, anticipating the inevitable conclusion. He had long since had his surveillance team install two types of monitoring equipment in 221B Baker Street. The first set were small, discreet cameras and microphones, carefully hidden. Sherlock found and disabled them all.

These were merely a distraction from the second set of surveillance equipment, which were so tiny and well-hidden that they were virtually undetectable. Sherlock's confidence in having found and destroyed the more conventional devices caused him to relax his vigilance before he found the more sophisticated cameras and microphones.

Mycroft was not a monster, however. He hired a discreet surveillance staff to monitor Sherlock's activities, establishing firmly that the only activity to be reported to him would need to fall within certain parameters. Even then, Mycroft wanted only summaries of the questionable activity unless he requested a full transcript or viewing of the footage. He actually did value his brother's privacy, despite what Sherlock might think.

So when Anthea came to Mycroft with the news that Sherlock and John had finally taken their relationship into the realm of the physical, he did not request details. He simply made a point of arriving at the flat early the following morning for a chat with Sherlock and his doctor.

oOoOo

Sherlock, clad in his blue silk dressing gown, ambled into the sitting room, to spot Mycroft seated calmly in John's preferred armchair, idly swinging his umbrella by his side. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he leaped forward.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"I gather congratulations are in order, brother dear. Please allow me to be the first to offer them." Mycroft pointedly glanced at the purple shirt on the floor by the sofa, and the plaid one dangling from the horn of the cow skull on the wall.

Sherlock whirled to close the sliding doors dividing the sitting room and the kitchen, then spun back to glare at his older sibling.

"What. Do you. Want."

"I'm simply concerned for your welfare, little brother. Why do you always think the worst of my intentions?"

"Oh, I don't know…perhaps because whatever devious activities I can imagine for you to engage in, they pale next to your actual, hideously invasive machinations?" Sherlock sneered.

"I merely look out for your safety, Sherlock. If you were more open with me, I would have no need to resort to such tactics."

Sherlock snatched up his violin and flounced onto the sofa, plucking moodily at the strings. Then he suddenly froze, obviously listening to the sounds of John putting on the kettle in the kitchen.

"I'm as open with you as I have any intention of being, Mycroft," he hissed softly. "My private life is my own."

"And do you plan on sharing the details of your past with Doctor Watson, Sherlock?" When Sherlock's eyes blazed at him, Mycroft continued, "The circumstances surrounding your dropping out of university, for example?"

"You are even further over the line than usual, Mycroft, and that's truly terrifying to imagine."

"Sherlock, I only have your happiness in mind. If you would just tell me the details…"

The sliding doors opened suddenly, revealing John Watson, clad only in a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. Mycroft, glancing over John's remarkably attractive form_ (why the devil does he hide under those ridiculous jumpers?)_, felt a sudden pang of envy for Sherlock. He covered it by flicking imaginary lint from his immaculate trouser leg, then looked back up at John.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. You're looking…_fit_…this morning." His eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline as he glanced over John's body.

"Erm…yes. Good morning, Mycroft. I wasn't expecting guests. Excuse me for a moment." John turned back to return to Sherlock's bedroom, when Mycroft's voice stopped him cold.

"Then you'll probably be needing this, Doctor Watson." Mycroft stood, and used the tip of his umbrella to fastidiously retrieve the shirt that dangled from the horn of the cow skull. He extended it toward John.

"Undressed in a bit of a rush last night, I see." He regarded John with a searching, steely gaze.

John flushed brilliantly, and seizing the shirt from the umbrella tip, stalked from the room.

Mycroft turned back toward Sherlock, still hunched moodily on the sofa.

"As I was saying, brother mine, I am always happy to punish those who hurt you. If you ever choose to share the identity of the one who hurt you enough to make you run from Cambridge, I can make it my business to make him regret it." He stepped toward the door, then looked back at Sherlock.

"And of course, it goes without saying that if John ever hurts you, I can make him regret it, as well."

"Get. _Out_." hissed Sherlock, silvery eyes shooting daggers at his older brother.

Before Mycroft could reply, John returned, more completely attired in rumpled jeans and the rescued shirt.

"I'll be talking to you soon, Sherlock." Mycroft turned to John. "Doctor Watson. Walk me out, will you?"

In the foyer, Mycroft turned to John, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes.

"I suppose congratulations are in order. I can't say I haven't been expecting this. I wonder if you know what you are getting into, Doctor Watson?"

"For God's sake, Mycroft. Call me John," snapped the doctor.

"Certainly, John. My apologies." Mycroft adjusted his tie, then fixed him with a piercing gaze. "How much has Sherlock told you about his…romantic past?"

John stiffened.

"Sherlock will tell me what he thinks I need to know, Mycroft. You need to stay out of our relationship. It's between Sherlock and me, and is none of your business."

Mycroft pursed his mouth into a wintry little smile. "Quite right, John. Well, if you decide that you need further…information, you know how to reach me."

He turned, umbrella swinging, and swept out to the sleek, black car that waited at the kerb.

Anthea looked up as he settled into his seat.

"Where to, sir?"

"Back to the office, my dear. I want the surveillance status on my brother and Doctor Watson upgraded to Grade 4." Mycroft hesitated, then added, "I'd like you to read all transcripts of the audio yourself, and alert me to any…sensitive details. Particularly any reference to past sexual partners."

"Certainly, sir." Her cool expression was all business. Anthea was truly a find – Mycroft had never had a better assistant. He sighed and turned his thoughts to the net that he was closing in on Moriarty. He felt certain that the consulting criminal would not elude Mycroft's team for much longer.

oOoOo


	3. Chapter 3

Author note: See disclaimers and notes from Chapter 1.

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.

Trigger warnings: References to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

Please read and review!

**Chapter 3**

oOoOo

"Sir?" Anthea stood in the doorway to Mycroft's office that evening, holding a steaming cup of fragrant tea.

"Yes?" Mycroft looked up from the thick report on his desk, scrubbing his hand across his face in an attempt to banish fatigue.

"I know you are focused on the capture of James Moriarty at the moment, but you did ask me to monitor the surveillance transcripts on your brother for sensitive details."

Mycroft sat back in his seat, subtly trying to relieve the crick in his neck. "You've found something?"

"Yes, sir." Anthea paused, then added, "Doctor Watson and your brother had a very…intense... conversation this morning after your visit."

"Give me the salient points, please."

"I have prepared an excerpt from the transcript for you. I have to warn you, sir – there are some…disturbing details." She stepped back to her desk in the outer office and retrieved a manila folder.

"Thank you, my dear. Your kindness and discretion are, as always, greatly appreciated."

"Sir, may I schedule you an appointment with Serge for tomorrow morning? A massage might relieve the neck strain."

"Yes, thank you, Anthea. Only a short one, mind – I can't afford to spend more than half an hour on such hedonistic activity when there is so much to oversee."

"Very good, sir. I'll arrange it right away."

Mycroft opened the folder and began to read, scarcely registering the soft click as the door closed.

oOoOo

_**Excerpt from Transcript of Surveillance on 221B Baker Street (master bedroom)  
Wednesday, 11.48 p.m.**_

Watson: Will you tell me, Sherlock, how much experience you have?

_[43 seconds of silence] _

Watson: I'm not looking to compare a 'score' or anything, love. I just want to see if my suspicions are correct.

Holmes: I'm rubbing off on you, John. I think deducing the number of sexual partners that your potential partner has had would come under the heading of 'a bit not good.'

Watson: I'm guessing that it's one person, Sherlock. Am I right?

Watson: Sherlock, was this man…cruel to you? Did he hurt you? Did he hit you?

_[video surveillance shows Holmes nodding an affirmative response] _

Watson: Is this how your sexual relationship went? Did he expect you to just submit whenever he was ready? Did he never make love to you?

Watson: Sherlock…the way I was kissing you tonight, down your neck and chest, stroking and touching you – did he never touch you that way?

_[video surveillance shows Holmes shaking head in a negative response] _

Watson: My love, I'm sorry to ask such invasive questions, but I need to know one more thing. When the two of you…had sex…did he take the time to prepare you first? Did he use lubrication? Did he go slowly?

_[video surveillance shows Holmes shaking head in a negative response] _

Watson: _[sighs]_ Okay, Sherlock. No more questions. You can tell me anything you are comfortable telling me, but I'm not going to demand any more answers right now. _[rustling noise]_ Here. Put these back on, and let's just cuddle up and go to sleep, okay?

_**Excerpt from Transcript of Surveillance on 221B Baker Street (master bedroom)  
Thursday, 10.23 a.m.**_

Watson: Sherlock? Are you ready to tell me about it?

_[28 seconds of silence] _

Watson: Sherlock, I know it's hard. I know it's horribly painful to dredge it all up. But I have no idea what I'm up against, and I need to know what sort of things might trigger those feelings in you. I don't ever want you to feel like you felt last night, when you, well…when you 'went away,' for lack of a better phrase.

Holmes: John, it's not necessary. I don't need to give you all of the sordid details of my past. I'm absolutely fine.

Watson: Sherlock, I'm not asking for a blow-by-blow description, although, if you feel a need to share every detail, I will certainly listen while you tell it. What I saw last night was an abuse victim reenacting a scenario from his past. That was not good, Sherlock.

Watson: Sex can be something so beautiful, to be shared by two people who really love each other and want to express that love. That's what I want with you. I don't want you to suffer through sex with me. I don't want to 'fuck you.' I want to make love to you, to worship your body with mine. I can't do that if I'm afraid I'm going to trigger a reaction like last night's. Do you understand?

_[1 minute, 14 seconds of silence]_

Holmes: I can try to tell you. Can you…can you not look at me while I do that?

Watson: Of course, my love. Whatever makes it easier for you. Whenever you're ready.

_[5 minutes, 33 seconds of silence]_

Holmes: Until I went off to university, I was unaware of myself as a sexual being. I knew about sex, of course. I wasn't naïve. But I thought of myself as being above it all. I focused on my studies, and in my spare time, I studied my peers. I learned to observe little details about them that indicated what their activities had been.

Holmes: One evening, a number of students from my dormitory had a party, and invited me along. That's when I met Se– when I met him.

Holmes: Somehow the subject of sex came up, and everyone began revealing their amount of experience. I pointed out the exaggerations and outright fabrications by some of the loudest participants. Se– he encouraged me, laughing loudly when I unmasked some of the most obvious liars. I found myself showing off for him.

Holmes: Of course, the ones who felt the sting of my words retaliated, and began to mock me for being a virgin, saying my obsession with their sex lives proved…proved what a pathetic little poofter I was. They all laughed at that.

Holmes: I stormed out, and Se– he followed me. We walked back to the dormitory, and he invited me back to his room. He flattered me, told me how brilliant he thought I was. He kissed me. I'd never experienced anything like it. I thought I was in love.

Holmes: He invited me to go home with him for the holidays. We went to his parents' estate in Derbyshire. That first afternoon, he took me out for a walk around the grounds. We came to the old gatehouse. He took me inside, and he…

_[26 seconds of silence]_

Holmes: He had sex with me. I didn't know what I was doing, and he was angry and impatient. He forced me down, and…it…wasn't pleasant. I had expected…everyone says sex is so wonderful, but it wasn't. It was painful. I was afraid. Afterward, he was scornful, and when I tried to be affectionate, he mocked me. Finally he told me that I was 'his bitch' now, and he walked out.

_[44 seconds of silence]_

Holmes: He did it again, every day, sometimes twice a day, during those holidays. I learned how to move, how to position myself, so that it wouldn't hurt as much. He liked that, and I was…I was grateful for the approval. Having sex with him was always painful, but it got easier.

Watson: Sherlock, you know…you must know that…that's not sex, right? He raped you. Sex takes place between two willing partners. That's not what you're describing here.

_[3 minutes, 17 seconds of silence]_

Holmes: If I could convince myself it was consensual, then that gave me back some feeling of control over what was happening to me. I knew it was…was…what it was, but it was easier if I believed I wanted it, too. Then I was still making my own decisions. Can you understand that, John?

Watson: Of course, Sherlock. That's actually a pretty classic example of traumatic bonding syndrome. Developing a sense of rapport with an abuser gives one a sense of control. What happened when you returned to school?

Holmes: When we got back to university, he told everyone that I was...his 'bitch' now. They all mocked me for giving them a hard time about their sex lives, while being perfectly willing to "take it up the arse" from Seb–

_[3 minutes, 17 seconds of silence]_

Watson: Go on, love.

_[33 seconds of silence]_

Holmes: He kept me as his…"bitch"…for most of the rest of the term. He would come to my room to have sex, and then sometimes, if I had pleased him, he'd stay and talk, laughing and joking like we were great friends. I allowed myself to believe that he cared for me, that this was a real relationship. What a little fool I was.

Watson: No. Not a fool, Sherlock. Just a lonely, inexperienced kid, who only wanted someone to love him.

Holmes: Sounds like the very definition of a fool, John. Anyway, two weeks before the end of term, I decided to go see him in his dormitory. It was raining heavily. The way the common room in his dormitory was set up, there was a partition between the entryway and the main room. As I paused in the entryway to fold my umbrella and shake off the rain, I realised I heard Se– his voice…

Watson: Sherlock, I might not be a brilliant consulting detective, but I think we both know I've figured out his identity.

Holmes: I heard…Seb's voice raised in laughing conversation. I wasn't really trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help but hear it quite clearly. One of the others was asking him what he saw in me – 'the freak,' they called me, like Sally Donovan and Anderson – and Seb replied, "Are you kidding? I've got that little bitch well-trained. He'll do anything I want him to do. Anything. Use your imagination, gentlemen. If you can imagine it, I can make him do it. Do any of you want to borrow him? I can make him do it. I can make him suck you off, Keeling, while Rodgers is balls-deep in his arse. Maybe he can give me a handjob while he's at it. What do you say, gentlemen – care to come visit the freak with me this evening? I can promise you a good time." I turned and fled, racing back to my room. I was packing a bag to leave when a knock came at my door. His knock.

_[49 seconds of silence]_

Holmes: Sebastian was alone at the door. I sagged against the doorframe in relief, thinking he must have been joking, and I just hadn't understood. You know I don't always get jokes, John. Then he pushed his way in, and…slapped me to the floor. He had been rough with me before, but he never started out like that.

Holmes: It was horrible, John. He shouted at me, said I had been spying on him at his dormitory, that I had forgotten my place. He kept slapping me, punching me. He punched me in the mouth, and his signet ring split my lip. This scar on my bottom lip is from that blow. He beat me until I was almost unconscious. Finally he said, "Clean yourself up. I'll be back tonight with my friends, and you will service them as you are told." Then he walked out.

Holmes: I left that afternoon. I walked out on my university career. I found a place to stay in London, and soon after, I discovered cocaine. Not my best time of life, John…John?

_[2 minutes, 57 seconds of silence]_

_[video surveillance indicates that Watson is crying.]_

Watson: Thank you for telling me, Sherlock. Thank you. Now I know what I need to do for you.

_**End of surveillance transcript excerpt**_

oOoOo

Mycroft sat, head bowed, fingertips circling firmly against his temples. He was struggling desperately against a wave of nausea.

He knew something terrible had happened to his little brother at university. He knew it had involved a romantic relationship. He had always assumed, foolishly_ just assumed, _that it had been a romance gone sour, an ugly breakup. He had never _dreamed_…

Mycroft shook his head to clear it, straightened up, and closed the surveillance file. Tomorrow he would have Anthea contact Cambridge and obtain a list of alumni in Sherlock's year, and she would begin what would probably be a swift search. Sebastian wasn't the most common name in the world, but Sherlock had been attending Cambridge, and it could be reasonably expected that there might be a fairly large number of Sebastians among that population. Still, Anthea would make quick work of the list, and locate _Sebastian_, whoever he was.

Then Mycroft would have to make…arrangements.

He turned back to the Moriarty file, and waited for the news of his capture.

oOoOo


	4. Chapter 4

Author note: See disclaimers and notes from Chapter 1.

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.

Trigger warnings: References to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

Please read and review!

**Chapter 4**

oOoOo

Mycroft stood in the observation room, looking through one-way glass at James Moriarty, who sat silently, twirling his fingers idly as though conducting a silent symphony. Moriarty had said nothing since his capture, and seemed quite content to remain mute. Mycroft looked up as Anthea entered the room, closing the door behind her.

"Sir, I have some urgent news about your brother and Doctor Watson. I'm afraid it's not good. They were attacked by robbers in Regent's Park, and Doctor Watson was stabbed. He's in emergency surgery – the knife nicked his femoral artery."

Mycroft sagged for a moment. "And Sherlock?"

"Was not injured, sir. He apprehended the suspects and applied first aid until the ambulance could arrive. It appears that he saved Doctor Watson's life."

Mycroft straightened again, allowing himself to feel a small glow of relief and pride in his little brother's efficient handling of the situation.

"Thank you, Anthea. Please keep me updated on Doctor Watson's condition." He turned back to the observation window, watching Moriarty's fingers describe lazy patterns in the air.

oOoOo

A week later, stepping from the interrogation room into the brightly lit corridor, Mycroft carefully preserved his cool, unflappable exterior, despite his inner battle with fear and loathing. James Moriarty was a monster. Proximity to the madman made Mycroft feel the strong urge for a long, hot shower.

Anthea was waiting for him in the corridor beside the armed guards. It was a mark of their professionalism that neither of them _(one male, one female, both attracted to women)_ paid her a bit of overt attention.

"Sir? I need to speak to you privately, when you have a moment. It's regarding the surveillance."

While Mycroft knew of any number of current projects involving surveillance, he had no doubt to which project Anthea referred. He led her down the corridor to the small office that had been designated for his temporary use at this nameless detention facility, closing the door carefully. He turned and lifted his eyebrows in query.

"Sir, Doctor Watson was in an altercation this afternoon at a sushi restaurant in London."

Mycroft looked up, stunned. "What? The man has just recovered from a stabbing!" John Watson never ceased to surprise him.

"Apparently he is made of stern stuff, sir," Anthea smirked. "He assaulted another patron of the restaurant in the men's lavatory. The man visited the Royal London A&E this afternoon, and his chart says he has a fractured zygomatic arch, concussion, numerous contusions to his head and face, and serious bruising of his trachea and larynx."

Mycroft's eyebrows were lifted so high that only his receding hairline prevented them from blending into his hair.

"What was the cause for this altercation?"

"There is no CCTV in the men's lavatory, for obvious reasons, so we do not have a record of the confrontation. However, based on the man's identity, I believe that I can surmise the nature of the discussion. His name is Sebastian Wilkes."

_Sebastian Wilkes._

Only the previous evening, Anthea had reported that she had narrowed the Cambridge list down to two possible Sebastians – one of whom was Sebastian Wilkes. Mycroft had a dossier on the man in his attaché case. He wasted no time in pulling it from the case and beginning to read. Anthea slipped quietly from the room.

oOoOo

"Sherlock?

The detective did not look up from his microscope.

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock." John came into the kitchen and set a small, polished wooden box on the table beside the microscope. An elegantly embossed silver "h" graced the lid, along with the words "Highland Park 40 Year Old Single Malt Scotch."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then looked up at John.

The good doctor was reading the small card that obviously came with the Scotch.

Ivory 243gsm 100% cotton cardstock, manufactured in Aberdeen, Holmes family crest embossed in high relief – his brother's personal thank you cards. Obvious.

He bent his head to his microscope once more.

"Well, John? You must have done something right for my brother to gift you with such an expensive token. Interesting."

John re-read the note – and frowned.

_Doctor Watson – _

_I believe we might have gotten off on the wrong footing the other day. Please accept this small token of my high esteem. I deem you not only to be a worthy companion to my brother – but also a man who, let us say, does not let the grass grow under his feet when it comes to 'exacting retribution.'_

_You have my admiration, John – and my thanks._

– _M. Holmes_

oOoOo

Mycroft took a deep breath, firmly battening down his composure, before stepping into the cell. Cold, dark eyes glittered up at him. James Moriarty, sitting on the floor with his back resting against the concrete wall, studied Mycroft as he coolly strode to the center of the room. Mycroft deliberately kept his eyes locked on Moriarty, refusing to acknowledge the scribbles of his brother's name on every available surface of the cell. Seeing "SHERLOCK" repeated as an endless pattern by the hand of this psychopath made Mycroft feel ill inside, but no one would ever know that from his outward appearance.

Moriarty had been in custody for eleven days now, and had not spoken a single word. Various methods had been employed to encourage cooperation, but Moriarty seemed to have iron fortitude. Now he eyed Mycroft with a sharp, unpleasant scrutiny, clearly waiting for a reaction.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at Moriarty. "Enjoying your stay, James?"

The silence from Moriarty was hardly a surprise. Mycroft began to stroll idly back and forth, hands lightly linked behind his back.

"Your obsession with my brother is fascinating, James. Of course, I understand – Sherlock is fascinating. Oh, the stories I could tell you…"

He paused, looking coolly down at those black eyes, eyes that suddenly glittered with interest.

"Of course, I couldn't bore you with my stories, James. It would be rude to deliver an endless _monologue_ about my brother, wouldn't it? _Dialogues_ are so much more…interesting."

Moriarty said nothing, and Mycroft sighed audibly, turning to leave.

Then suddenly a voice, raspy from long disuse, came from behind him.

"A bit of _quid pro quo_, as the overdone hack wrote. Is that what you're proposing, Mycroft, old boy?"

Mycroft turned back slowly, not allowing his triumph to chance a muscle of his expression.

"Exactly so. Shall we begin our dialogue now?"

oOoOo

These "_quid pro quo_" discussions went on for several days. Mycroft tried to tell the most innocuous stories about Sherlock that he could, although he was uncomfortably aware that the psychopath was learning far more about his brother than Mycroft would prefer.

However, perhaps there was a way to salvage a little something from this twisted deal he had struck with Moriarty. On the fourth day of the interrogation, when Mycroft and his team had reluctantly concluded that they were not going to obtain more information from Moriarty without stepping into a realm that would violate many human rights conventions, Mycroft decided to have a last conversation with the self-proclaimed "consulting criminal."

"James, I have one more tidbit of information that you might be interested in learning about Sherlock. However, I fear it would possibly endanger the life of one of your many financial contacts if I were to share it."

Moriarty raised a sardonic eyebrow. "And your heart would bleed for that poor, innocent individual, wouldn't it, Mycroft?"

"Not really. I must confess that I wouldn't be overly sad to hear of the misfortune of a man who could do such a thing to Sher–…but you don't need to know about all of that."

Moriarty's posture shifted, and Mycroft knew he had him. There was no mistaking the possessive, jealous glint in those soulless eyes. Yes, Moriarty would certainly take decisive action on the matter.

" I believe, James, that you have had certain dealings with a Sebastian Wilkes..."

oOoOo

Mycroft settled into the buttery-soft leather of the club chair. The years had not dulled his appreciation of the Diogenes Club. He nodded his appreciation at the flannel-booted butler that placed a perfectly prepared cup of tea beside him, and unfolded his newspaper to peruse the headlines.

**Local Financier Killed in Bizarre Escalator Accident**

_Police were called to the scene of a tragic accident this afternoon at the offices of Shad Sanderson, the international banking conglomerate. Sebastian Wilkes, 35, was found crushed to death inside the escalators that lead to the main lobby. Cause of death has been ruled to be accidental, although so far there has been no explanation for how Mr. Wilkes could have become caught in the mechanism…_

Mycroft folded the newspaper, leaned back in the chair, and sipped his tea.

FIN.


End file.
